


Waltz in A minor (posth)

by colubrine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Grocery Shopping, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), dubious piano playing, mildly h/c adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colubrine/pseuds/colubrine
Summary: They go into the village six days after arriving in Scotland.Martin finds a piano.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 87





	Waltz in A minor (posth)

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory Scottish honeymoon fic.

They go into the village on the sixth day since arriving at the safehouse. 

They had stopped here, briefly, on the way up to the house that first night. It had been late, too dark to see much of anything in the town. Martin stayed in the car while Jon made a quick run through a miraculously still open grocery shop and hastily filled a basket with a random assortment of non-perishables. 

Today they walk instead of taking the car, because it’s a sunny day and only about a half-hour’s trip on foot (maybe 40 minutes when accounting for stops to pet friendly cows).

It's a good day after a string of bad days and worse nights. Martin barely even spoke during those first 48 hours, barely did anything but cling to Jon like he was the only thing keeping him from being drowned in the lonely's undertow. Jon is sure he has never been so terrified in his life, not in all the countless times his life has been threatened in the last five years, as when he thought Martin might never be free from the Forsaken's grasp. On the third day something finally shifted. The color started returning to his face, he stopped feeling like he would disappear if left alone for more than a few minutes. There was talking, of course; words, feelings, confessions, enough to last Jon a lifetime even though it still feels like they barely touched the surface, like there will never be enough time to say all of it. Martin is yet to have a day without a panic attack, or a night without dreams of waves and sand and thick, white fog, but he's getting better.

It makes Jon indescribably elated to watch him cooing over fluffy ginger cows.

The village is picturesque, a fishing town nestled in the foothills of the highlands. It's the kind of place Martin would probably write poetry about. (Jon wants to ask if he still writes poetry)

They go to the same grocer’s Jon had come to the first night, Martin checks items off their list while Jon pushes the trolley, and they argue gently over which tomatoes are better for pasta sauce. The girl at the till with a pink and orange striped pin on her shirt gives them a knowing smile when Martin mentions they’re staying in a friend’s cabin just outside the village. She says something about unorthodox honeymoon locations, and neither of them correct her. (Is there anything to correct?)

It’s all startlingly domestic, in the wake of everything.

After their shopping is done he lets Martin pull him toward an antique shop down the street from the grocery that had caught his attention on the way into town. 

“Oh, look!” Martin exclaims with the kind of enthusiasm that usually indicates the presence of a small or furry animal.

Under the awning at the front of the shop is an upright piano, fairly old by the looks of the scratched wood and yellowing keys, but in relatively good condition, Jon thinks. He internally winces at seeing a piano outdoors, wonders about how long it’s been there and how warped the soundboard must be by the humidity and temperature fluctuations. Jon realises, then, that he didn’t know a thing about piano soundboards before just now, and tries not to think about it too much.

Martin is charmingly delighted. He sits down on the creaking bench and picks at random notes with his index finger, pushes at the tarnished brass pedals to see what they do. The timbre is predictably tinny, but the instrument is surprisingly only slightly out of tune.

“I used to play, you know.” Jon says conversationally.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. My grandmother forced me to take lessons when I was, ah, year nine I think? I hated the idea at first, but I actually ended up enjoying it quite a lot. For a while I spent more time playing than reading.”

“But..?” Martin says, sensing there’s more to the story.

“ _But_ , as it turns out, Grandmother’s vision of having a musical prodigy for a grandson didn’t take into account the endless hours of practice that go into being good at it.”

“Ah,” Martin offers with a sympathetic grimace.

“She couldn’t stand the noise. Within a year she put an end to the lessons and sold the piano.”

“That’s… really sad.”

“I suppose,” Jon says, stepping closer to the piano and tapping his own dissonant melody in the upper keys, “I didn’t give it up entirely, though. I played most of the keyboard parts for mine and Georgie’s band in uni. Nothing extravagant, mind, mostly just chord progressions.”

Martin’s lips pull at the corners ever so slightly when he mentions the infamous uni garage band. He’d found out about it two days ago and hasn’t stopped needling Jon for information since.

“Think you could play something?”

“Oh, no,” Jon chuckles, “I haven’t touched a keyboard in- god, eight years?”

Martin doesn't stop smiling, but Jon can tell he’s a bit disappointed, sees that nigh imperceptible fall in his expression.

Martin is having a good day. Possibly the first good day in months (years?), certainly the first good day since they left London, and it hurts Jon to see him disappointed. It hurts to be the source of his disappointment, once again, when the last thing Martin deserves, after all he's been through, is to be let down by someone who's done nothing but let him down from the beginning.

“Here,” Jon says, gently urging Martin to stand. He lifts the seat of the bench to reveal a compartment that holds a small pile of books. Martin hovers over his shoulder while Jon rummages through stacks of sheet music. There’s a book of beginner technique exercises, an ‘Essential Bach’ collection, some loose sheets that all appear to be from different pieces, and… 

A thick book titled ‘Frédéric Chopin, 19 Waltzes’. It’s an old edition, probably older than the man holding it. The corners of the pages are curling in on themselves and the sewn binding hanging on by literal threads. 

But it’s in one piece, more or less, and a waltz sounds vaguely manageable.

Martin continues to watch with curious anticipation as he sets the music on the piano, closes the bench and takes a seat. He flips through the book, but it’s been far too long since he’s sight read anything to reliably judge if any of it is playable for him. The words ‘Waltz in A minor’ catch his eye. He remembers this one, he thinks.

Jon flattens the pages against the rack and places his hands on the keys. 

It’s not great. His rhythm is halting, the concept of note values largely lost to his memory, so he plays that part mostly from how he remembers the song sounding. His right hand still struggles somewhat with fine motor control after the burn, especially in the cold autumn air, and his fingers frequently trip over one another. But he stumbles through all the same, resolutely not attempting to Know anything that would make it easier, just an echo of muscle memory and dubiously recalled note reading guiding him. 

It’s not perfect by any means, but when he plays the theme for the final repetition it’s almost easy and he feels strangely accomplished as he releases the last chord.

Martin is practically beaming at him when he turns around. 

“That was lovely.”

Jon clears his throat self consciously, feeling his face go distressingly hot.

“You’re a flatterer. It was atrocious.”

“It was good, really!”

“If that was good I shudder to imagine what constitutes ‘bad’ in your mind.”

“It was fine, Jon," he sighs, still grinning, "Just remember us little people when you’re debuting at the Royal Albert Hall, yeah?”

Jon laughs and Martin only smiles wider. Of all the things he’s learned about Martin in the last week, his favorite is how much he likes to _tease_. It’s one of the little things he only caught glimpses of before, Martin’s tendency toward playful sarcasm.

They’re both quiet for a moment, then, Martin looking at him with that unguarded adoration that Jon knows he doesn’t deserve.

“Thank you, Jon.”

His voice is small and so, _so_ sincere and it makes Jon’s chest ache with affection.

Jon clears his throat again, standing and pointlessly brushing invisible dirt from his jacket.

“We should probably get walking. Before the- the milk spoils.”

They both know the milk isn’t going to spoil, because it’s only a half-hour’s walk to the house, after all, and it’s 12 degrees outside. Martin doesn’t comment on it.

He also doesn’t say anything when, five minutes later, Jon shifts his bags into one hand, leaving the other one free to wrap securely around Martin’s elbow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Jon plays [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HtQRpmaaiCo), ie. Baby's First Chopin for anyone who's ever taken piano lessons.
> 
> This isn't beta'd or britpicked, so please let me know if you spot any mistakes.
> 
> I have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/gerardskeys) and a shiny new (empty) [tumblr](https://gerardskeys.tumblr.com).


End file.
